Bright
by charlottespresso
Summary: To bring Sherlock out of the depths of his drug addiction, Mycroft consults an esteemed psychologist.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

This is a story about people who are bright, and I'm not one of those people.

At least, I don't think I am. I think that if you were, you'd know. You'd be clever enough to figure it out for yourself, like you figure out everything else. Or maybe it's not conscious; maybe decades of knowing more than you're supposed to has led you to conclude that you are simply different from the rest of them. I don't think, in any of my observations of them, they've really spelled out what they are.

I've met quite a few bright people over the years. Every so often one of them is referred to me, after hopelessly going through the lower-level mental health services. They nearly always leave quite a few psychologists shaken up, having already guessed everything they will be asked and diagnosed with. As a result, they're usually quite cynical about my abilities. That doesn't last for long. I'm too experienced.

Every one of my bright patients has been different, but there are a few which stick out in my mind, and they are the best examples I have. Their stories will help you understand just what I mean by bright.

I have five people's stories to tell, but I only treated four of them. Technically, I only treated three, but Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, was simply too interesting for me not to include both of them. I encountered the very first of my 'bright' people, Jim, when we were both very young, and he was the first stone on my route to meeting Emily, Nicholas, the aforementioned Holmes brothers, and countless others.

-Riley Albright


	2. 1 Sherlock and Mycroft

1. Sherlock and Mycroft

A half-empty glass of wine stood on the table, rich burgundy liquid sloshing to and fro with the movements of the plane. The in-flight lasagne meal had been picked at, tomato sauce beginning to congeal. They had both been abandoned by their owner, who sat stiffly in his seat, drumming his fingers in irritation. His surroundings were designed specifically to encourage him to relax, but Mycroft Holmes had no intention of relaxing.

His companion was nestled into the padded cyan chair opposite. Their personal TV screens mapped a tiny animated plane's route to England; Liverpool John Lennon airport to be precise. While Mycroft could not be more eager to reach their destination, his brother Sherlock became increasingly nauseous with every pixel the plane crossed.

The two brothers were polar opposites in appearance. This was not a new development; the main differences had always been there.

But now, it was not simply a case of fair haired-dark haired, fat-thin. Mycroft was as pristine as one would expect from a high-ranking government official. Every inch of his tailored suit had been pressed to within an inch of its life, buttons polished to perfection. His umbrella and organised suitcase were placed carefully in the luggage compartment above them.

Sherlock, on the other hand, sported dishevelled black hair and unkempt clothing to match. His eyes were framed by purple shadows, made much more prominent by his skin's pasty pallor. He was clenching and unclenching his fists.

Sherlock Holmes' luck had run out. His brother had utilised his seemingly endless number of connections to locate his brother in Paris, France. Sherlock, in hindsight, thought it may have been a better plan of action to go somewhere more obscure, but his drug-fuelled mania had inhibited his brainpower. Now, the last of his cocaine had been processed and used up by his body, prompting the first of the withdrawal symptoms to emerge.

He went through them in his mind. Exhaustion, check. Nausea, check. Craving-double, triple, _quadruple_ check, and it would only get worse. The clenching became more vigorous.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock murmured. His brother didn't reply. Sherlock tried again, shaking Mycroft's arm. '_Mycroft_!'

'Just another twelve minutes until we land, Sherlock.' He sounded more offhand than sincere.

_As if it makes a difference_, Sherlock thought bitterly.

The plane, through Mycroft's perception, took an agonisingly long time to land, and he jumped out of his seat the moment the seat-belt light flickered off. It took him only a moment to realise that Sherlock didn't share his haste. In fact, he was struggling to get up, leaning on his armrest for support. Mycroft instinctively took hold of Sherlock's forearm, only for Sherlock to pull away, mortified.

The route through customs and to the luggage pickup seemed much longer for Sherlock's illness. Mycroft's assistant, who was today named Angelica, collected it for him. Sherlock, of course, didn't have any luggage.

In typical Mycroft fashion, he was on his mobile phone the moment it was practical.

'**_Merci_** _**pour votre aide, Monsieur Claude**_,' he said, clumsily pronouncing the typically smooth language. Beside him, Sherlock balanced on a handrail. 'Just couldn't resist, could you?' he mumbled, too quietly for Mycroft to hear him. He continued to chat away with the foreign connection, negotiating a meeting in London to discuss overseas relations. When he was done, the phone went back into his front pocket, ready to be easily accessed again.

'Want anything from duty-free?'

Sherlock looked up at him incredulously. 'Is that a joke?'

Irritation. Mycroft honestly couldn't decide if it was part of Sherlock's normal behaviour or a withdrawal symptom. Probably both.

The sky was darkening when they left the airport. The street lamps had switched on, and the limousine waiting for the brothers seemed to be emitting scarlet fog from it's front and back lights. Sherlock knew where he was going, and Mycroft knew that Sherlock knew. There was nowhere he wanted to go less in the world-but what was the alternative? Any attempt to escape again would simply result in being dragged into the car, and anyway, he couldn't get far in his state. So he accepted his fate, through the silent car journey to their hotel. He accepted his fate when he was led to his room with boarded-up windows, and when he heard what must have been a lock sliding into place. He accepted it when he tried to go to sleep, hoping desperately that it would be that little bit easier in the morning.


End file.
